Solitude

Blank canvas,

the off-white of days.

Subtle progress

in escaping the daze.

Still not the alabaster of purity

deserving of praise,

but the milky air of obscurity

and uncertainty, always.

 

A new interpretation

of an old painting;

an undiscovered implication

in ancient writing.

Not brand new

nor reborn,

This canvas has been used,

worn and torn.

 

Filled with emptiness

and lack of substance,

loud with silence

and rich in the absence

of fulfillment.

In my solitude,

I am extraordinarily

insignificant.

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